Category Archives: Downtown / Midtown Sacramento

2013, the Year in Reflection

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It is the first day of 2014 and I find myself reflecting on the previous year with a full heart and a smile of contentment on my face. Many positive things have occurred in my life during the preceding year. Attaining several personal goals that I had set for myself in my own life only affirm what I have known for a very long time… what I tell those who doubt their own capabilities; we can do anything that we set our minds to do. Nothing is beyond our reach if we are willing to put in the time and the effort to achieve our goals, reach for the stars and work hard for what we want.

I attained a very personal scholastic goal with the completion of my MFA in creative writing program. This, I must say, ranks highest on my list of achievements for the year, although I embarked on that path more than two years earlier. This accomplishment is followed closely by the completion of my debut short story collection If Walls Could Write and Other Stories which I expect to publish in early 2014. I also reached a milestone in photographic print sales in 2013, surpassing the $1000 mark in photographic art print sales. In 2013 I ran my first half marathon and logged over 82 hours running covering more than 409 miles. As a result of this and the other physical activities that I am involved in such as yoga and mountain biking, I am in the best physical condition of my life. I also started a new job in October that I love, and for the first time in years I actually look forward to going to work each day.

The past few years have not been without their challenges, but these challenges have been met with resilience and a determination to maintain my forward momentum. I am a firm believer that God will not place anything in our path that with faith and the help of those who love us, we cannot handle.

There is a quote by Henry Ford that I am fond of referring to. I have had it framed over my computer monitor at work for the past seven years. They are words to live by… words that I have been living by for some time now:
“Whether you think that you can, or that you can’t, you’re right.” – Henry Ford

If there is something in this world that you are passionate about, hunt it down and capture it. Life is far too short not to fill our time doing what we love… what makes us happy. I’m not much for New Year’s resolutions, but in the coming year I WILL devote more time to my passions in life.

I see great things in store for me in the upcoming year… I hope that each of you will find the same foresight for a prosperous future for your lives as well. Make your dreams come true in 2014… I am. – JLJ

Ghost Writers

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Ghost Writers

I needn’t come to terms with why I do the things that I do.  I know what I’m doing.  I am comfortable with it.  What is intuitive to one may seem a compulsory act by another.  Who is to say what makes up the intellectual interests of one mind over another, what fills the heart of one than another… to another?  This is not for me to say of others nor should it be the mission of others to say of me.  At this moment I am sitting in a cafe in the Oak Park neighborhood of Sacramento hunched over my computer, double mocha half reach to my right, doing what I love… I am writing.  Surrounded by like-minded souls in a cafe of an eerily similar name we gather each week for the same purpose.  Seeking, striving to attain the same goal which is not really a goal at all, per se… more a need.  For some of us, perhaps an obsession.  An obsession to write.  The product of my efforts, or hers; his; theirs, are unimportant to you.  They are all important to me… to us.  I write for the pure joy that the creation of life on the page gives me.  I write for the sake of dropping a dime on that little voice in my head that tells me that I have no time.  I have no desire.  I have no-thing to write.  To this voice I say nothing.  I pay it no heed, give it no power whatsoever as it has no power unless I empower it.

This is what we do.  This is who we are.  We are writers.  Ghostly images reflecting in a cafe window, the diminished opacity of our true selves seemingly negating our very existence… still… we write. – JLJ

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Forty Miles on the American River

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Today I changed up the routine a bit, took advantage of the beautiful weather and hit the river trail on my bike. Ahh, yes, fresh air, sunshine and solitude. Just what an ailing psyche needs after weeks of putting the needs of others before one’s own. My goal was to surpass the mileage of my previous ride, a milestone attained with far less effort than it had the last time I rode this trail.

Stopping to take a couple of photos on the river, I turned back at the twenty-mile mark and headed home to resume my supportive role of friendship. Then, it happened. Thirty miles into my forty miles on the American River, and still ten miles from home, the hypnotic drone of my dirt tires on the hot asphalt suddenly changed its tone… this could mean only one thing… I had a flat. This likely occurred during one of the three times I launched my mountain bike off the paved trail and onto a single track dirt path for a little off-roading.

In my haste to embark on this journey of self rejuvenation, I neglected to take a spare tube, my multi tool and enough water to sustain me had this unforeseen event occurred. Thankfully, my tire pump was mounted to the frame and after airing up each mile or so, I was able to ride another four miles before the tire would no longer take air.

My forty mile ride ended as a thirty-four mile ride and a six-mile walk… Still, this was a good day.

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Live. Love. Write.

Live.  Love.  Write.

Ah, yes… finally, the twisting, turning road of my scholastic endeavors that I have been meandering down has at long last delivered me to a mile stone in life, a point from which I must map my next journey, navigating once again to new and exciting destinations.

Live.

Love.

Write.

This is my mantra. A saying first seen on a decal somewhere… out there. An adage that now adorns the lid of my circa 2010 laptop, displayed proudly for all to see each time the mood strikes me, lifting her top in one public space or another to caress her keys, breathing life into the minion that inhabit my fictional stories, my beloved characters, living breathing things with lives that I create in the theatrical productions of my mind.

Imaginary worlds with illusory lives born of a distorted observation made through a raindrop streaked café window nestled in a tiny mountain town somewhere… out there.

Story lines imagined from scenes casually witnessed strolling along downtown streets, thwarting the unvarying, yet humble requests “can you spare some change.”

Requests made from soiled, weathered faces… familiar faces that have regularly infiltrated my peripheral vision over the years, only diversity being the depth of their creases—lines etched of years of hopelessness and despair.

Each day I escape. I must. I have for years; a compulsory break, if you will, from the monotony of the gray fabric walls that desire to restrain me, to hold me captive eight hours a day—five days a week. My escape is not so much an escape from as it is an escape to. A quest for the solitude of my own creative mind and to, if only momentarily satisfy my insatiable desire to rendezvous, to quench my thirst for the very intimate relationship I have with my laptop, her keys worn shiny and smooth from our incessant love-making…

Ah, yes, The Writing Life… Infinitely solitary… Intimately gratifying… If I do nothing else on this earth, I will continue my pursuit of my passions and…

Live.

Love.

  Write.

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Unmata, belly dance gone STRONG

When a friend of mine asked me if I would like to go check out some belly dancing in Midtown on Second Saturday, I thought to myself, sure that might be fun. I mean, I’ve seen belly dancing before and it was kind of cool, I guess. If nothing else, it would be nice to get out of the house on a warm summer night and see what’s happening in Midtown. She said that her daughter was one of the dancers performing and that I should meet her in front of their dance studio on 17th & K Street.

I jumped in my car and drove as close as I could get while still being able to find parking which is typically nonexistent on Second Saturday and even more elusive on a warm summer night as this was.

I wound up walking several blocks before reaching the studio where I expected to be mildly entertained with a traditional show as I had seen before. Rounding the corner, however, I was ill prepared for what I saw. This was no ordinary belly dancing troupe. There was fire, and swords, and tattoos, and hip-hop music, and flaming whips! I stood next to my friend in awe, mesmerized by the hypnotic motion and addictive energy of this beautiful spectacle of artistic originality.

Incorporating traditional belly dance with hula, hip-hop and other modern dance disciplines, Unmata lives up to their name and their own unique style which they appropriately describe as “belly dance gone STRONG.”

Take a look at this video and you’ll see what I mean.

oops I did it again…

Oops, I did it again. OK, I’ll be the first to admit it. I’m kinda a softy when it comes to some things. Homeless families with young children rank pretty high on this list. If you recall, I posted a bit of a rant a year or so ago about a bad experience when trying to help out a homeless man who asked me for money on my way to the bus stop after work one day. Unlike the masses of homeless people that I encounter day in and day out over the past six years, I had never seen him before and gauging by the look in his eyes, he appeared to be sincerely in need. So, after some trepidation, I turned around and gave him a dollar, only to hear out of his formerly need stricken countenance in a sarcastic tone, “Wow, a dollar… Thanks.”

That was the basis for that posting of long ago, and the experience left such a bad taste in my mouth, that I swore that I would never again fall victim to the deceptive Chameleon like transformations of con artist posing as a member of the downtrodden, needy populous in this city, and in the process, I would likely miss an opportunity to help someone that really needed it and miss making a difference in someone’s life. Well, I’ve done it again. Not the falling victim part of that charitable endeavor but I did, after some apprehension and after declining the donation request by the same pair of young people twice earlier, I lent financial assistance to the needy. This time it was different. I saw this young couple with a sleeping infant child in a stroller for the first time on Tuesday. They were not among the population that frequents the area asking for hand outs. They appeared to be genuinely in need, the young man’s expression on his face was all-telling. He was truely ashamed to be asking for help for his family, but he did it none-the-less.

I passed them for the third time on my afternoon break, and seeing that they would likely be there when I returned, I went to the ATM and withdrew some cash. On my way back I stood nearby, reading my Kindle and casually watched them as they approached the Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament’s rectory door in an effort to gain some assistance with their current situation. When the woman returned to her mate and child after another failed attempt at raising anyone at the rectory, I approached them and asked about their situation. I could see, and hear from their story that they were sincerely down and out and were taking action to get them a place to stay before the rain came. The pair had already accumulated some funding for a room for the night, and the woman had recently qualified for section 8 housing and had been added to the housing list with a tentative placement date of next Tuesday.

I apologized to them both for my two previous denials of their request to help them explaining that working in the downtown area, I get asked for money every day and typically by people whose motivation is not as pure as theirs. I went on to share with them of my own experience with homelessness twenty years earlier, recalling to them how scary it was for me as a single man to be living on the street, let alone a young couple with a child. I handed the woman $60 and encouraged them both to surround themselves with the right people, keep knocking on the door of the rectory and to never lose hope. “Keep faith, things will get better for you,” I told them. They thanked me enthusiastically and I went back to work. When I left at the end of the day, they were still in front of the Cathedral. I gave them each a bag of caramel corn that I purchased from our office fund raiser snack selection and reiterated my message of keeping hope that things will get better for them.

Sometimes a little kindness is all it takes to bring hope back to a seemingly hopeless situation. I hope that I made a difference in the lives of this young trio. Kind people helped me when I was in a similar situation so many years ago. I take comfort in knowing that, if even only on a small scale, I am able to pay it forward. This young family will be in my prayers tonight. Please put them in yours if you are so inclined.

What is appropriate in the eyes of God?

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OK, far be it for me to judge, and especially about such topics as church or that which is deemed appropriate as it relates to the faithful, but I could not let this go without posing the question: what is appropriate attire for church? I’m sitting in a cafe’ on the corner of 11th & K Streets in Downtown Sacramento on a Sunday morning working on a paper for school.  I’m in full view of the magnificent Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament when the clock in the tower strikes noon and out come the masses form the earlier Sunday Mass.  Now, again, being one who first of all, does not attend church regularly, and secondly one who will wear jeans to work on occasion when the capacity of my laundry hamper has reached its limit and has gone unnoticed, or more likely ignored, I am hardly the one to set a precedence for attire appropriate etiquette.  However, as the grand doors to the Cathedral opened, out stepped the faithful, smiling with rejuvenated newfound faith that the world in which they live is still a good and God-fearing place to raise their families.  Among the flock are several young women, mid to late teens, or perhaps twenties (hard to tell by the way they were dressed) carefully descending the nine granite steps to the courtyard below, balanced precariously high upon six-inch stiletto’s and struggling to bend joints confined within excruciatingly tight-fitting jeans.  Another young woman, similar in assumption of age group as the previously observed, traversed the Cathedral steps effortlessly in her, what appeared to be seven-inch platform shoes, straps crisscrossing up her calves, that effectively accented her wonderfully voluminous dress that barely came to the top of her knee.

The jeans wearing youngsters found their prospective familial units and made their way to whatever the next stop on their fashion tour was under the guise of dressing up for church, disappearing into the warm noontime sun of this early fall day.  The billowing dress adorned young woman, crossed the light rail tracks and walked in my direction.  Holding my gaze as she approached, she cast a warm smile as she passed the window behind which I was perched whaling away on my laptop.  I returned the gesture, of course.  It was only appropriate…

I broke a Cardinal rule today

 I broke a cardinal rule today.  I gave a homeless man a dollar.  OK, I know, that sounds a bit insensitive, but there is a good reason why I don’t give homeless people money.  Well, actually, there are several reasons, good ones as far as I am concerned, not by some people’s standards perhaps, but my reasons none-the-less.  I work in the heart of downtown Sacramento.  One doesn’t have to dig too far back in news story archives to discover that Sacramento has a homeless problem and its a biggie.  The population of homeless nearly doubled with the mortgage meltdown started a chain reaction that sent property values plummeting close to 33% forcing countless families out on the street.  The point that I am trying to make is that I have seen the same homeless people every day for the past four years when I go to lunch, take a break and walk to the State Capitol to stroll in the park.  If I were to succumb to each and every request for money I would be right there next to them in just a few months time.  So, my cardinal rule is to not honor 3 to 5 requests for cash that I get five days a week.

I would just as soon take them into a deli and buy them a meal, and I have done just that on occasion.

Today, while leaving my office to catch my bus, I spied a guy whom I have never seen before sitting on a large duffel bag with various personal belongings scattered around his immediate vicinity.  As I passed he said “excuse me, but could you possibly spare some change?”  I went into automatic mode and gave my customary response: “Sorry, I have no cash” and continued walking.  I got a few feet away and, as I have been known to do on very few occasions if I feel that the person has a genuine need and won’t make a bee-line for the liquor store before the coinage has settled into his palm, I turned around, pulled out my wallet and handed him a dollar.  I thought, hey, I have never seen this guy before and he looks to be really down on his luck.  Just as he closed his fingers around the bill, he said in a sarcastic tone: “wow, a dollar.  Thanks man.” and turned his head away from me as I stood before him.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  That ungrateful bastard  I thought to myself as I walked away, feeling like my compassion had just been stomped on.  “That settles it, that’s the last time I do that.” I said out-loud as I continued my journey to my bus stop, hoping that my audible proclamations were not misinterpreted as the mindless ranting babble of the street population that had just lowered my compassion level.
Don’t get me wrong.  I am very compassionate for the homeless population in Sacramento and everywhere in this country.  No one, I mean NO ONE should be without a safe place to sleep and have enough food to eat.  But if you’re putting yourself in the position to ask people to help you out with a donation of cash, food, clothing, or whatever, be genuinely grateful, because when you’re not, you’re taking food out of the mouths of those who are truly appreciative of any help that they can get.   
 
Which reminds me of another similar instance in which a few people in my office commented one day about a homeless man who they have seen rummaging in trash cans near the office looking for recyclable.  He asked the same thing as he passed: “can you spare a quarter?”  I don’t know what he thought he could get for a quarter, but he was probably trying to sound as though he wasn’t asking for much, prompting compassionate folks on the street to give him more.  After all, all he’s asking for is a quarter, right.  why not give him a  buck, or even five?  
So, these few employees also commented that this guy was walking around in a pair of corduroy pants that were torn from his feet all the way up the back of each thigh, the rip disappearing underneath the back of a ragged flannel shirt that he always wore.  Taking note of this, the three of us gathered up some clothing to give to him the next time that we saw him so that he could at least have some real pants to wear and some shoes on his feet as it was winter time when the topic of him came up.  When all was said and done we had gathered up socks, pants, shoes, and a nice warm jacket.  We stored some of this stuff under a chair in my cubicle and the larger items in my car with the plan to pull him aside and give him this gift of compassion the next time we saw him  
A few weeks went by and while on a break I finally saw him again.  He was going through a trash can in front of the Cathedral, pants ripped even ruther up his legs, bare feet black from walking for months without shoes.  I approached him and he gave his customary spiel:  “Can you help me out with a quarter?” he said.  I returned with my automatic response: “sorry, I have no cash, but some co-workers put in a collection of some clothes for you.  we have pants, shoes, socks and a nice warm coat.” I said.  His response was brief, and to the point.  “No, that’s OK. I’m alright.”  He then turned and walked to K street to the next trash can, raising his head briefly to mouth his perpetual query to the next person who would listen: “can you help me out with a quarter?” 
On my way home from work that day I stopped at the local Goodwill store and donated all of the clothing that I had gathered up specifically for this man.  A donation of shoes and socks still sit in a bag under a side chair in my cubicle.

The Birds of Cosumnes River Preserve

I tend to find my photography subjects everywhere.  I am never without my camera and I will photograph whatever i find interesting from the dilapidated abandoned buildings of downtown Sacramento with their resident bats, rodents and homeless to the ornate architectural elements of the turn of the century buildings that pepper the Sacramento and San Joaquin Valley.

Lately, though, I have had really good luck finding cooperative subjects among the wildlife at Cosumnes River Preserve.  Located just off of I-5 and Twin Cities Road in the town of Galt, Cosumnes Preserve encompasses several hundred acres of wetlands with walking trails that meander through wooded areas and meadows where one may encounter a beaver busy putting together its hut, muskrats scurrying along the banks of the river on a quest for food or even the occasional mountain lion coming down to the water’s edge to check meal prospects that may include the aforementioned river inhabitants.  

The variety of water birds and raptors is also pretty phenomenal.  Here is a slide-show that I put together of some of the wildlife that I have encountered within two days of shooting last month.

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If you’re ever traveling in the area on I-5 on your way north or south between Lodi and Sacramento, Cosumnes Preserve is a worthwhile side trip.

I do NOT wear a pocket protector

Alright, I have been known to be, how you say, less than a fashion conscious person over the years.  In jr. high school my wardrobe consisted of giant bell bottom jeans and tee shirts with iron-on decals depicting motocross bikes, trucks, or that infamous green monster flipping the bird.  Yes, I actually wore that to school.  What can I say?  My dad was frugal and he let my brother and I wear pretty much whatever we wanted, and, my brother was better at this than I was, but I would even get a hair cut every couple of years.

Now, I’d like to think that my fashion sense has, for the most part, anyway, improved somewhat over the years and when it comes to work, there is as certain standard that is required of me.  Business, or business casual is the norm for most employees in my office, but I will be the first to admit that I exhibit some slight geek tendencies in that I typically carry a 4″X6″ note pad in my shirt pocket along with a pen.  I also, as many of my peers with which I share the first digit of my age will attest, now find it necessary to use reading glasses in order to focus on small print, and because of this, I keep a pair of readers in my shirt pocket along with my aforementioned essentials.

A couple of co-workers (who will remain nameless, but you know who you are) have been getting on my case about the conglomeration of stuff that I pack into my shirt pocket at work and have dubbed my eyeglass case as a pocket protector.  I deny this misinterpretation with fervor and I attest that I do NOT wear a pocket protector.  It is an eyeglass case that is occupying the same space as my writing tablet and pen; items that one might place into a pocket protector if they were so inclined to wear one, which, I am not.

One day, one of these two co-workers, who claims that he is only looking out for my best interests, stopped by my workstation under the guise of speaking to me on some work related topic or another and, unbeknownst to me, he snapped a photo of me and my overloaded pocket reflecting in the mirror by my desk.

I was oblivious to this assault, as this particular co-worker is never without his phone.  He can be seen throughout the day with his I-Phone grasped in a death grip in his hand, his head craned at a near perfect 30 degree angle as he traverses the corridors of our office blindly, guided through doorways and stairwells apparently by some hidden eye or video GPS device affixed to the top of his head.  Ya got an app for that? 

So, anyway, I thought nothing of it when he was standing at my workstation addressing his concerns about the malfunctioning copier upstairs with his phone in his hand. 

The efforts by this employee to get me to abandon my practice of cramming all this stuff in my shirt pocket has not been in vain.  I have now limited my use of my reading glasses.  I have since realized that I just don’t need them nearly as much as I previously thought.  The battle over my notepad and pen, however, goes on.  I will continue to keep a notepad and pen in my pocket because I use it for various personal and professional purposes.  I write.  I take notes on writing prompts or other subject matter that I deem valuable to a future story idea.  I am also a photographer.  When I see spy an intesting subject that I would like to photograph within the 40 square blocks of Downtown Sacramento, the area that I typically walk going to and from the bus, and my daily errands, Ill jot it down and revisit it later.

Maybe I’ll adopt the suggestion of this concerned citizen, who proclaims to only have my best interests in mind, and carry these items in my pants pocket instead, keeping my geeky note-taking habits hidden from the world at large.  But then, what would I do with all the junk I keep in those pockets? 

Whatever the final result of this issue that has recently been brought to my attention, I stand my ground in saying:  That is NOT a pocket protector.